


blitzkrieg

by frozensight



Series: a whole new world (literally) [13]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozensight/pseuds/frozensight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hs!au, Napoleon finds out the Russian transfer student has more to him than he initially thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blitzkrieg

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: Punks can get scared of thunderstorms too
> 
> notes: I am terrible at actually writing things for them that are actually "shippy" and not just vague somethings and I'm sorry. Enjoy it anyway?

It’s not that Napoleon hates high school because no, it has its merits and he _supposes_ he’s learning social graces and shit like that—plus it keeps him away from home, which he’s eternally grateful for—but there are _definitely_ some things he could do without.

Meatloaf Monday would be the first to go, shortly followed by the awful combination of forest green and bright orange that adorns every school uniform as the official colors. He’s petitioned for them to change it several times, but apparently tradition counts for more than not burning people’s eyes on sight. It’s also tedious in his opinion to have mandatory chapel at a school who’s student population is largely non-Christian, but that’s another tradition of which they’re loathe to let go.

“Just join the student council, Napoleon,” Gaby has told him repeatedly, “Stage your revolution. If only so you’ll whine to your fellow council members and not _me_.”

He considers it, but then he thinks of all the work that would entail, not to mention, he’s a senior now—what’s a few more months of hideous green and orange ties compared to actually having to put forth _effort_?

Somewhere along the list of ‘things that would greatly improve St. Alexander’s Anglican’—between abolish the ‘leave room for Jesus’ rule for dances and an inquiry into the background of the school’s janitor is just the name Illya Kuryakin. It’s written in all caps—and yes, Napoleon actually wrote it down during third period because _Moby Dick_ is boring—and next to it on either side are tiny little skulls because doodling had seemed more productive than detailing how much Hemingway could count the ways to suck it.

When Gaby sees the list—because his campaign manager (if he changes his mind about running for student council) should be apprised of his ideas and plans—she rolls her eyes when she notices Kuryakin’s name. “Honestly, you’d think he’s the school bully or something the way you go on about him.”

“I’m sorry, did you miss the fact that Peter was a few minutes from the _hospital_ yesterday?”

“And did _you_ miss the fact that Peter was the one who _started it_ by making fun of Illya’s mother?”

He had, in fact, missed that, because Napoleon had been making out with his current girlfriend, Vicki, up until the sound of Kuryakin’s fist impacting Peter’s face into the wall reverberated throughout the hallway.

“If he can’t handle it, and judging by the amount of disputes he’s gotten into since he transferred here, maybe he _should_ go back to Russia.”

Here’s where Gaby gives him her patented ‘I’m supremely disappointed in you, Napoleon Solo’ look that she mastered back in freshman year and then walks away to her physics class, leaving Napoleon to wander the halls until he eventually makes it to his AP biology classroom—with three seconds to spare, he reminds Mr. Keller with a tap of his watch as he sits down.

That’s the thing about Gaby though, he thinks, pen twirling around his fingers, faintly paying attention to their lesson about cells or something, she doesn’t _have_ to scold him verbally to make him understand he’s being an ass if she doesn’t feel like it or have the time. Reluctantly, he admits to himself that perhaps he’s being unfairly presumptuous about Kuryakin, that maybe it’s harder than he imagines to be a Russian transfer student at a British private school. Napoleon certainly hadn’t had any trouble when he’d enrolled a couple months into the start of his freshman year, but he was also _him_ , whereas Kuryakin did not have that advantage, despite transferring during the summer before senior year.

Pleased that he’s come to the self-illuminating conclusion that he’d been an ass, but has no intention to apologize for it, Napoleon leaves his last class of the day, determined to find Vicki and make the most of his parents being away for the weekend. He’s halfway down the hall, heading towards the senior parking lot, when thunder rumbles through the building, practically shaking it to the ground.

“Well there goes sex by the pool,” mumbles Napoleon as he picks up his speed and begins jogging down the hallway, hoping to get to his car (and Vicki) before the rain starts. He’s almost out the double doors when the sound of singing distracts him.

Normally singing wouldn’t be out of place at St. Alexander’s after school—their choir is well known and quite prestigious—but Napoleon knows for a fact that the choir doesn’t meet on Friday afternoons. Curious, he inches toward the room he hears it coming from, previous objectives forgotten in lieu of this sudden mystery.

As he gets closer, he realizes the song isn’t in English, but something heavier, something that he’s fairly certain is Russian. (Not lilting like English and far too many hard sounds for it to be German.) He gradually pushes open the door, and is shocked to find the one, the only, Illya Kuryakin, sitting at a desk, a chess board set up before him. The pieces are arranged like he’d been playing someone, except no one is there, and a couple of the pieces have been knocked to the floor. Kuryakin, himself, doesn’t seem to realize Napoleon’s presence yet, at least he doesn’t until thunder rocks the building again, and Kuryakin’s hands press tight to his ears while his singing gets louder, though shakier.

It’s not until the third peal of thunder sounds that it dawns on Napoleon what exactly he’s witnessing—Illya Kuryakin, giant Russian of an almost-man, is scared of _thunder_ .

“It’s just weather, you know,” says Napoleon finally, moving close enough to enter Kuryakin’s peripherals properly, causing his fellow student to startle and whip his hands away from his head. Unfortunately for Kuryakin, the storm is moving towards them because the moment he ceases singing, thunder picks up its own song, making Kuryakin wince, hands clenching his pant legs.

“I know what thunder is, Solo,” growls Kuryakin, his eyes determinedly meeting Napoleon’s despite the fact it’s obvious he’d rather not. Thunder rolls practically overhead and Napoleon feels it in his chest. Kuryakin mouths something under his breath, but for all that Napoleon can read lips, he has to admit he’s not able to read lips _in Russian_. Taking a stuttered breath, Kuryakin adds, “Please leave, you are not part of chess club.”

Napoleon looks down at the chess board, takes in the positions of the pieces and how Illya’s playing black, but white is winning, and asks, “I didn’t realize we had a chess club.”

And they don’t, he mentally tacks on, and he knows this for a fact because he goes over the lists of available clubs every year. Gaby calls it pointless and anal, but Napoleon likes to be aware of what his peers are up to, even if he’s not remotely inclined to join anything.

“Congratulations, now you realize it, so please leave.” His eyes are now focused on the chessboard, but his hands haven’t moved from his thighs and the only thing moving the pieces is the gentle vibrations they receive from the near constant thunder.

He considers doing as he’s asked, but Napoleon notices that Kuryakin seems slightly less tense when addressing him. Gaby’s face appears before his mind’s eye, giving him The Look, and it doesn’t take more than a quick ‘sorry, not today’ message to Vicki, before Napoleon’s pulling up a chair to sit on the other side of the desk.

“What if I _want_ to join chess club?”

That actually seems to shock Kuryakin enough that he meets Napoleon’s eyes again. “You? Join chess club?”

Napoleon picks up the first piece that catches his eye—the queen—and rolls it around in his hand. “Sure, why not? My parents are always yelling at me for not having any extracurriculars, and I don’t _hate_ chess.” What he doesn’t say is that playing chess in the study is one of the few fond memories he has of his father from his childhood.

Kuryakin watches him for a moment, barely twitching when thunder rumbles, and then nods curtly before he resets the board. “I win, you leave. You win, you can join club.”

“Sounds fair,” Napoleon says calmly, more pleased than he’d like to admit that Kuryakin actually accepted him this far. Previously to today, the most interaction Napoleon has had with the Russian transfer student was when they were working on a group project in history. Everyone in the class had laughed at how the two exchanges students—from America and Russia—had been assigned the Cold War.

“White goes first,” Kuryakin reminds once he finishes placing the pieces where they go. The challenge is blatant in his eyes, and Napoleon straightens just a bit in his chair because suddenly he doesn’t want to lose.

“Pawn to E3,” declares Napoleon as he makes his first move. Kuryakin grins at him, which is the first positive emotion out of him that Napoleon has ever seen. Distantly he’s aware that someone has texted him—probably Vicki or maybe even Gaby—but the mystery of that is nowhere as interesting as finding out what makes Illya Kuryakin tick.

Two hours and three games later, Napoleon has succeeded in winning two of three games, cementing his place in the unofficial chess club. Kuryakin pretends to begrudgingly keep his word to allow Napoleon to join him, but it's obvious—to Napoleon at least—by the way Kuryakin's eyebrows don't furrow that he's joking—mostly. Honestly, Kuryakin seems more annoyed that Napoleon beat him twice than anything.

"Next time, _I_ will win more games."

"Sure thing, comrade," Napoleon slaps Kuryakin's back as they leave the school, having been ushered out by the janitor as after-hours ended. The storm has long since passed, but the ground is still riddled with puddles to remind them of its recent presence. "When is next time, actually? I should be apprised of the club schedule, seeing as I'm a member now."

Kuryakin rolls his eyes. "Every Friday afternoon usually. Sometimes Tuesdays, it depends on when the club president feels like it."

Somehow, Napoleon feels like that's a jab at the United States, but he let's it slide. "Does that make me the Prime Minister and we can trade positions every few years to maintain an informal dictatorship?"

Okay, he _mostly_ lets it slide.

"Of course not," Kuryakin begins, ignoring Napoleon's jab at Russia, "You're not smart enough to be Prime Minister. You're secretary at most."

Napoleon can't help but laugh at that. "I suppose that leaves me with room to grow within the club."

Kuryakin huffs, shifting his bookbag onto his shoulder better. "I doubt you will progress too far in the time remaining of the school year, but you are free to try, Solo. Is good for character development."

" _You're_ good for character development," Napoleon retorts automatically, used to throwing the childish response back to Gaby, but a few seconds after the words leave his mouth, he finds that it's more than a little bit true.

" _Spacebo_ ," mutters Kuryakin, the small smile back on his face as they face each other, standing next to Napoleon's car. "And here I was afraid you wouldn't notice."

Taking his turn to roll his eyes, Napoleon unlocked his car, getting in after tossing his backpack into the trunk. "Whatever, Kuryakin. I'll see you Monday or whatever."

His smile grows a bit, but he just nods and walks off. Napoleon watches his back for a moment before he shakes his head and gets into his car. He checks his phone as he sits there and sees that he has messages from both Vicki _and_ Gaby, about five total he hadn't even been aware of, which speaks to how distracted by Kuryakin he was. The ones from Vicki are the usual—annoyance at him canceling last minute, but then an expression of missing him, followed by a text full of emojis that undoubtedly held a secret meaning Napoleon will have to decipher later. Gaby's texts, on the other hand, ask that he reconsider Kuryakin; that he's a nice guy if Napoleon were to just give him a chance. He shoots off a quick response to her, saying he is actually working towards that hypothesis now, but doesn't elaborate.

He starts his car, and despite the music playing on his radio, hums the song Kuryakin had been singing the whole way home.


End file.
